


lost

by godisastark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anyways, Emotional Trauma, F/M, M/M, Marvel/Lost AU, Minor Injuries, Plane Crash, Serious Injuries, Survival, as in the marvel characters are the passengers on oceanic 815, island doesn't really make sense, island has magical healing powers, island has smoke monster, not lost characters are in this story, still don't know how to tag, the end of lost made me very mad so i'm gonna try not to make you guys mad with the ending of this, they're marvel characters instead, very similar to the pilot of the show and then i'm off on my own a little bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 23:01:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18904438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godisastark/pseuds/godisastark
Summary: A group of people find themselves on a mysterious island after a horrific plane crash. As they're about to explore it and find answers as to what happened to them, it becomes apparent that the island is much more than they originally thought it was. How does one survive on an island that seems hellbent on killing them the first chance it gets?





	lost

**Author's Note:**

> the Marvel/Lost au that literally no one asked for. i've searched and searched and have never seen this idea been done before so hopefully someone out there enjoys it.
> 
> also should be noted: it's NOT necessary to watch lost in order to understand this fic. i explain everything just fine. while it's very helpful and also might just be more enjoyable, since you'll be able to make connections, watching lost before reading is definitely NOT a must.

CHAPTER ONE: LOST

 

 

 

Steve’s eyes open with a wet gasp. He can taste blood in his mouth, and above him, he sees palm trees swaying with a gentle breeze, a small trail of smoke billowing with the palm fronds. There is a dull pain in the back of his head and a sharp throbbing behind his left shoulder, but most importantly, Steve isn’t sure if he can get up.

 

Beside him, a rustling draws his attention, and he turns his head over to look, grateful that he at least has that function still. There is a large patch of bushes, luscious and green, shaking from the movement, and Steve feels a spike of fear run through him, unable to control his response. He can hardly think. He doesn't know where he is, why he is lying down, why he is seemingly in the tropics, or why he is as afraid as he was right then.

 

The rustling stops, and out runs a dog, black fur sticking up and matted down in different places. It runs up to Steve, licking his face tentatively, and Steve draws away on instinct, avoiding being tickled. With this movement, he discovers he can move his entire body, and that other than the few distinct places of pain, he doesn't seem to be majorly injured.

 

As he’s getting up, it all comes back to him. His feet are planted on the ground, and he realizes that he was in a plane before. He doesn't know how long it’s been since the crash, or where he is in conjunction to it, but adrenaline starts its run through his veins. There’s a whole plane full of people probably in the exact same position as him, all in need of help. It’s his duty, his oath, to help those people. 

 

So he starts a tentative jog out of the bushes, forgetting the dog and trying to find his way out of the woods. Distantly, he hears the grinding and squealing of machinery, hears dull crashes and the screams of people who have no idea what’s happening to them.

 

He makes it out of the woods, into a clearing, a beach in front of him. The beautiful calm of the waves was a harsh juxtaposition to the wreckage Steve eventually saw.

 

It was bloody. It was carnage. It was a _disaster_.

 

From what Steve could tell, just the middle of the plan sits, one wing barely intact and hanging midair over more of the wreckage. People running in every direction, some screaming, calling out to their families, others trying to shelter themselves from the flying, flaming debris. The first distinct words Steve hears are what drives him to rush headfirst into the wreckage, dead set on saving as many people as he can before it’s too late.

 

“Help me! Help! My baby!” a girl screams, with long, brown hair and a huge cut on her chin, bleeding onto her flimsy tank top. Her stomach protrudes from her, heavily pregnant, and her thin arms try to circle it, almost protecting it, from the bloodshed around her.

 

Steve runs directly towards her, putting more steam in as he realizes a piece of debris is falling in her general direction, seconds from hitting her and exploding, killing her instantly.

 

“Hey!” he yells hoarsely, not having spoken before this, “hey! Get away from here! Get out of here!”

 

The girl looks around, trying to find the source of the voice, and when she sees Steve, her eyes go wide, something akin to relief filling her eyes as she realizes someone is coming for her. “I can’t move! I’m having contractions!”

 

“Contractions?” Steve screams as he finally gets to the girl, pushing her out of the way and falling on top of her, shielding her small frame with his as a piece of shrapnel falls mere feet away from them, exploding into a large fire, sparks flying yards backwards towards more people. Through the smoke, Steve sees people fleeing the flaming debris, one unlucky man getting struck in the chest and falling, clothes catching on fire, dead. 

 

Steve moves off of the girl, realizing that crushing her baby isn't going to help with her potential contractions. “Are you okay?” he asks, voice still raised, as the engine winds up and down continuously, a loud whir overshadowing all of the other noise of the crash. “Ma’am? Are you okay?”

 

The girl nods vigorously, sitting up. “I’m fine!” She clutches her stomach and wails, head thrown back, gritting her teeth as she tries to fight off, seemingly, another contraction. “Ugh, it hurts so bad!”

 

“Okay, how far along are you?” Steve asks, slipping into his natural state. 

 

“Almost eight months…” the girl trails off, now trying to look anywhere but at Steve, and for good reason. What was she doing on a plane flying across the globe so close to her delivery date? Which doctor signed off on this?

 

Steve holds his arm around her back to try and steady her. “Okay, you can fight this, okay? Look at me,” the girl whips her head around, tears shining around her eyes and falling down her cheeks quickly, mixing with the blood running down her face from another cut on her temple. “You can fight it. But you need to stay absolutely still. Got me?”

 

The girl nods again. “I got it.”

 

In the near distance, Steve sees a figure wandering aimlessly, hands covering his ears as he walks through the wreckage, stepping over bodies and airplane seats strewn about. He also sees a body lying near him, and another boy hovering over it, attempting CPR. Badly attempting, Steve should say.

 

Needing to get across the field to help the kid and the body, Steve waves his available arm and yells out. “Hey! You! Get over here!”

 

The man in the distance looks around, as if trying to see if Steve is really shouting at him, before walking as slowly as humanly possible it seems towards them. “Uh…yeah?” the man hesitates, noticing the girl’s very pregnant state and clearly not wanting to be around it. “What’s up?” 

 

“I need you to stay with her while I go try and help some other people,” Steve explains quickly, letting go of the girl and taking off his watch, checking the time before standing up and handing it over to the man. “I need you to time her contractions for me. If they get closer than three minutes apart, you need to call out for me. Got it?”

 

The man rubs his shaved head, eyebrows crinkling. “Uh…” he draws it out for several seconds, leaving Steve to stand there impatiently and wait, watching the boy give horrible CPR in his periphery. “Dude, I don’t know about that.”

 

Steve can barely contain his sigh. “C’mon man, I’ll be right over there. Nothing else is gonna happen, alright?” The man hesitates some more before nodding. “Good. Thank you. Get her out of the fumes and sit her down. Time the contractions. Keep track of them. Okay?”

 

As Steve makes to run away, the man helps the girl up from the sand, helping her to wipe some off her legs before shooting up and yelling out. “Hey!” Steve turns around at the call. “What’s your name?”

 

“Steve!” he yells in response before dashing across the clearing towards the body,a man with cracked glasses barely hanging off his nose. The boy above him, most likely a teenager at most, is blowing air into his mouth.

 

When he gets there, Steve tries not to shove the boy off of the man too harshly. “That’s not gonna work, you’re blowing air into his stomach. His head’s not far back enough.” Steve tilts the man’s head back a couple more inches. “See?”

 

“Are you sure?” the boy asks. “I’m a lifeguard, I’m licensed.”

 

“Well, you need to seriously think about giving that license back!” Steve shouts before realizing he might've gone too far. He hovers over the man, opening his mouth slightly and blowing air into his mouth, feeling his chest rise with the extra air being delivered.

 

“That’s what I was doing!” the boy says insistently, leaning too close as Steve starts chest compressions. “Hey should we do that hole thing? You know, when they stick the pen in the throat?”

 

Steve rolls his eyes, facing away from the boy as he does so. “You know what?” he starts, looking back towards the boy and continuing chest compressions, “you go find a pen. Okay?”

 

The boy nods, face turning to stone, before he gets up and scrambles off. Steve hears him ask several other passengers if any of them have pens—in the middle of a _plane crash_ —before he runs out of earshot.

 

Taking a break to wipe the sweat dripping off his brow, Steve takes in a deep breath, regretting it when he realizes he can nearly taste the fumes coming from the engine. He resumes chest compressions, muttering “come on, come on” to himself as he does so. He stops the compressions to blow more air into the man’s mouth, then does more compressions, all the while keeping count of how long it’s been since he started.

 

Finally, the man coughs, sucking in lungfuls of air afterwards, wheezing slightly as he breathes. His eyes open slightly, squinting, no doubt trying to adjust his eyes to the smoke and other fumes in the atmosphere that burn Steve’s eyes since he entered the wreckage. 

 

“That’s right, that’s right. Breathe. In and out. There you go,” Steve coaches, helping the man sit up. “You’re okay. Everything’s good now.”

 

A screeching noise from above diverts Steve’s attention once again, and when he looks up, he sees that the wing hanging precariously above the wreckage is slowly splitting apart, ready to come down any second. Steve does a quick scan of the scene, and realizes the pregnant girl and the man he left her with are sitting directly below the wing, and would be crushed immediately if it fell.

 

Abandoning the man, Steve runs back across the beach, waving his arms and screaming over and over again to get the girl and man’s attention. “Get her out of there! The wing! Look at the wing!”

 

He sees the man look up, realizing their situation, and hurriedly helps the girl to her feet, not bothering to dust her off this time as they take off at a run. Steve catches up the them easily—the girl can’t run very fast, after all—and the three rush to get out from under the wing.

 

It happens in a flash, the wing drops and explodes, a horrible loud noise that sends the three flying a few feet across the beach, landing in a pile with the girl on the bottom, falling directly onto her stomach. Steve cradles her once again as they’re showered in sparks and small pieces of debris, shrapnel falling not very far away from them, piercing the soft sand and sticking up threateningly, glistening in the harsh sun above them.

 

“Are you guys okay?” Steve asks. The girl rolls onto her back, nodding, hands still cradling her belly, and the man lays on his side, sand covering half his face, offering Steve nothing but a thumbs up. “Stay here!” he yells as he gets up, surveying the crowd of survivors for any more injuries. 

 

“Not going anywhere, dude,” the man says, coughing up a bit of sand afterwards.

 

Satisfied and not seeing anymore serious injuries, Steve goes off to look through the wreckage, rifling through the first suitcase he sees. He sees a toiletry bag and unzips it, sucking in an excited breath when he sees a sewing kit at the bottom of it, with a needle and everything. 

 

The boy from earlier reappears at his side, panting and out of breath, clutching a handful of pens in his fist. “I didn't know which one would work best,” he says, breathing ragged.

 

Not wanting to get into it again, Steve takes all the pens. “They’re all perfect.” From there, he gets up and walks away, leaving the boy by the suitcase. Steve wanders back into the forest, clearing some ground to get isolated from the main wreckage. As soon as he felt he was completely alone, he sheds his suit jacket, biting back a whimper as he does so. Soon after, his dress shirt comes off and, looking behind him, he sees the back of his white undershirt is soaked through with blood, a distinct, sharp red that makes him curse and fall to his knees. 

 

Rifling through his jacket pockets, Steve finds a miniature bottle of vodka from the plane, and cradles it in his palm. He reaches for the sewing kit and starts to open it when he hears some more rustling in the bushes nearby.

 

He looks over and a woman steps out, red flaming hair cut short and falling around her face in bouncing curls. She looks afraid, holding her first and rubbing it with her other hand, clothes hanging off of her like they don’t quite fit right. She hasn’t noticed Steve yet, looking around the brush for something.

 

Deciding to make himself known, and that he’ll need the help with the stitching, Steve calls out. “Excuse me!” The woman, startled, looks over at Steve, eyes widening when she sees his precarious position, kneeling and bleeding on the jungle floor. “Did you ever use a needle?”

 

The woman’s eyes flit around, a nervous tick, Steve thinks. “W-what?”

 

“Did you ever…patch up a pair of jeans?” Steve asks, grasping for straws. He’s losing hope that the obviously distracted woman will be able to help him at all. 

 

Gulping the woman steps forwards once, blanching when her eyes cast down and she sees the blood covering all of Steve’s shirts, red against white. “I, um, did the drapes…in my apartment?” she answers in almost a questioning tone.

 

Sighing with relief, Steve smiles lightly. “Perfect, that’s amazing.” He turns his body slightly so that the woman can see the extent of the damage. “Hey, can you please help me out with this?”

 

The woman gasps at the sight of Steve’s open wound, a four inch gash that covers the span of his shoulder and cuts very close to his spine. Deeper, and it would've caused serious muscle and nerve damage. “I-I’m not sure I’m qualified to help you out with that, I should—“

 

“No, no!” Steve begs. “Please! You just said you sewed curtains!” He shows the woman the sewing kit. “Look, I just need you to stitch this up for me really quickly. I would do it myself, I’m a doctor, but I can’t reach around—“

 

The woman sobs slightly. “No, with the curtains I used a sewing machine.”

 

Steve sits back on his heels, eyes pleading. “Please. You can do this, I believe in you. Please, I just need some help and then it’ll be over.”

 

Considering for a few moments, the woman finally nods. “Alright.”

 

“Alright?” Steve repeats, slightly dazed that it worked. The woman nods, face focused as she walks towards Steve some more. “Alright, perfect. Here,” he reaches his hand out with the vodka in it, handing it to her. She grabs it tentatively, looking at Steve with an unreadable expression. “For your hands,” Steve explains, and the woman’s eyes dawn with understanding, unscrewing the cap to pour some of the liquid on her hands, cleaning them. “And save some for me,” Steve says quickly before she pours too much. The woman looks up, this time the concern and confusion evident in her gaze. “For the wound,” he offers, a sheepish smile on his face.

 

The woman relaxes, handing the bottle back to Steve and watching as he reaches around and pours some on the wound, hissing at the harsh burn he feels. It’s nothing compared to the aching throb that’s spreading throughout his arm and back and surrounding muscles, just a temporary hiccup, but the pain leaves him unable to open his eyes or breath for a few moments, just focusing on his breathing and nothing else.

 

When he opens his eyes, the woman is holding the sewing kit, having opened it and looking at the contents inside. “Any color preference?” she asks with a rueful smile that looks like a grimace, and Steve realizes she’s told a joke.

 

“No,” he laughs, his head coming back up. “Standard black.”

 

The woman grabs the black thread and the needle before walking back behind Steve, kneeling down once she gets there. He hears the rustling of her movement behind him, and almost asks if she needs help, before he feels the prick of the needle puncturing his skin right next to the wound. He hisses, stilling and trying not to move. “Sorry,” the woman mumbles, sounding genuinely disheartened, and Steve is quick to reassure her. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. You’re doing great. Keep going,” he says hurriedly, trying to regulate his breathing to make the whole process as painless as possible for him and the woman stitching him back together.

 

 

 

Wanda sits on a fallen metal pipe protruding from the sand, cradling her swollen belly with gentle hands, feeling for movement. Since the crash, she’s felt nothing, and the lack of pain or any feeling, really, is scaring her beyond belief. Night’s fallen since the plane crashed, and thought a fire’s being built nearby, Wanda thought it best to simply stay out of the way for now. 

 

Feeling the pipe move, Wanda looks over and gasps with delight when she sees her brother, Pietro, sitting down beside her. His fading bleached hair, still ridiculous in Wanda’s opinion, falls into his eyes as he moves towards her, one arm outstretched, a large smile on his face.

 

“Sorry I couldn't find you sooner,” he says in Sokovian, unable to speak any other language. “I was looking…all through the wreckage. You were nowhere to be found.”

 

Wanda places her head on her brother’s shoulder, basking in having him back at her side. “I was by the wing. Don’t worry, a couple of men helped me out before it fell and exploded. I’m fine, Pietro.”

 

“Before I could get to that side, the wing exploded into flames, and I was knocked back. I fell unconscious…” Pietro trails off. “I should've found you sooner.”

 

The two sit in still silence for a few moments before Pietro startles. “Oh! I found some food in the wreckage. Meals from the flight, I guess,” he face spreads into a smirk. “Are you and the little one hungry?”

 

Wanda giggles at her brother’s expression, stomach growling when she spots the box of tinned meals at Pietro’s side. “I’m starving.”

 

“Then you shall eat,” Pietro says dramatically, grabbing the box and placing it in Wanda’s lap. “I found all of it, I’m not sure if it’s all the same. Take your pick, but be wise. We might need to start rationing it for later on.”

 

The words sit like a heavy rock in Wanda’s stomach. “Later on?” 

 

Pietro’s expression turns serious as he looks over Wanda. He reaches out, thumb brushing the cut on her chin gently. “I’m not sure how long we’ll be here for, if I’m being honest. I don’t know much about planes, but I think, usually, we should be found by now. If they were going to find us.”

 

Wanda doesn't say anything after that, and Pietro doesn't look like he wants to talk further either, instead sitting back and looking up at the night sky, where they can start to see stars as the smoke clears out, blinking at them cruelly from where they lay on a random beach in the middle of nowhere.

 

To distract herself from her thoughts, quickly turning dark and sullen, Wanda rifles through the box, picking out two meals, and opening them greedily, her stomach growling once more, her baby sitting completely still in her belly.

 

 

 

“Are you warm enough?” Scott asks, leaning over to check on his daughter. A man’s coat he found in a suitcase is draped over her tiny frame, protecting her from the chills brought on by nightfall.

 

Cassie nods, snuggling further into the coat. “Can you hold me, Daddy?” she asks, her voice small, and Scott’s heart breaks.

 

“Of course, bug,” he moves to lie down next to her, swinging an arm around her and drawing her closer. He feels Cassie shivering against him, and almost asks if she’s warm enough again, before she speaks up.

 

“Is Anthony gonna come back to me?”

 

Scott sighs. Anthony, the precious black lab that Maggie had gotten for her daughter a few years back, while Scott was still in prison. Apparently, the dog followed Cassie everywhere she went, including across the world to go back home and spend time with her estranged, criminal father. He hadn't seen the dog since the crash, though, and there’s no telling if he even made it out of it alive. He tries not to think about that potential reality—it would absolutely _crush_ Cassie, and the last thing Scott needs on top of all of this mess is a a depressed ten year old daughter.

 

 

 

Sam’s arms burn from exertion as he throws another pile of wood onto the ever-growing fire before him. Wiping sweat from his brow, he looks around for someone to potentially help him, finding an impressively large man and a skinnier man beside him. 

 

“Hey, you guys,” he calls out to them, waiting for them to turn and look at him. “Can you help me get some more wood for the signal fire?”

 

The skinnier man scoffs. “I’ve got better things to do than to help you with your pathetic excuse of a—“ he’s interrupted when the larger man slaps him on the back, sending the skinnier man into a coughing fit.

 

“My brother and I would love to help you with your fire!” the larger man proclaims with a grin.

 

Sam shakes his head, smiling at the man’s enthusiasm and his apparent brother’s obvious lack thereof. “What’re your names?”

 

The larger man speaks up again. “I’m Thor,” he points to the man next to him, “and this is Loki. What’s your name?”

 

“Sam,” he replies, cataloging their names into the list of names he’s already collected so far. “So, more firewood?”

 

Thor nods, swinging an arm around Loki and dragging him off with him, a fresh look of discontent on his face when Thor places his hand on him. “Wood, right. Of course! Right away, Sam!”

 

Chuckling at the odd men, Sam thanks God that at least there’s entertainment while he's stuck on the island building a signal fire that he knows, deep down, will never be seen.

 

 

 

Steve finishes off his drink, setting the plastic cup back on the drink tray. 

 

“Enjoy your drink?” Steve looks over to see the flight attendant passing by with a cart. “You drank it fast.”

 

Shrugging, Steve says, “it was alright.”

 

The flight attendant quirks her head to she side and raises and eyebrow, a sardonic expression on her face. “That’s not a very strong reaction.”

 

“Well,” Steve says, settling back in his seat and crossing his leg, “it wasn't a very strong drink.”

 

Looking around for other employees, the flight attendant grabs two small bottles of vodka and slips them to Steve. “Don’t tell anybody,” she says, winking.

 

Steve takes them, a smirk on his face. “This, of course, breaks several flight regulations.”

 

Smiling, the flight attendant walks to the back of the ship, pushing her cart in front of her. Steve shakes his head, chuckling, before slipping one vodka bottle into his pocket, pouring the contents of the other into his drink, mixing with the remnants of his last drink. He downs it just as quickly as the first one, barely concealing a grimace. This drink is much stronger than the sad excuse of one the flight attendant had given him earlier.

 

Steve lifts up the plastic drink tray, standing up from his seat to go find a trashcan to throw his cup into. Before he can step into the aisle, a man bumps into him, sending Steve back a few feet as he rushes towards the front of the plane. Steve hears a faint “sir, excuse me,” from the back of the plane, and decides to sit down in the aisle seat until it’s clear enough to go find a bathroom.

 

“Guess he really had to go,” the man sitting in the other aisle seat says, grinning and folding his glasses up, placing them in his shirt pocket.

 

Steve smiles back politely. “Guess so.”

 

“Sir! Excuse me!” the same flight attendant says, louder now, as she rushes down the aisle after the man. Shortly afterwards, a male flight attendant follows behind her. 

 

It’s a few seconds later when the plane hits some turbulence, a few shakes that fasten Steve’s heartbeat but, other than that, don’t do much to shake him. The man on the other side of the aisle, however, grips the arm of his seat roughly, the whites of his knuckles showing underneath his skin.

 

When the turbulence clears, Steve tries to reassure the man. “It’s normal,” he says simply.

 

The man turns to face Steve, face hued a slight green. “Yeah, no, I know. I’m just…not a very confident flier, you could say.”

 

“Well, don’t worry,” Steve replies, “everything’s gonna be fine. I’ll be right here with you the whole—“

 

The last bit of his sentence is lost as the plane hits a huge air pocket, sending it falling a few miles and Steve hears the thumping of luggage falling from compartment, bodies hitting the ceiling of the plane. Alarms are going off, and Steve sees the flight attendants running back to their posts behind him. Buckling his seatbelt, Steve tries to regulate his breathing, finding himself with shortness of breath that, thankfully, is solved when the oxygen masks fall from the ceiling, dangling just within Steve’s reach.

 

Panting, Steve secures the mask around his face, then looks over to check and make sure the man on the other side of the aisle has his secured as well. Sirens blaring and an awful grinding noise, followed by a huge rush of wind, tells Steve the back of the plane must have broken off, his half still descending rapidly. His stomach in knots, Steve grips the arms of his seat, resting his head back against the cushion, and closing his eyes, blacking out.

 

 

 

“I think we were about 40,000 feet in the air when it happened,” Steve says, looking over at the red-haired woman, who had followed him out to the beach after she finishes stitching him up, the sky getting darker once they reached the beach again. “The back of the plane broke off, I’m assuming the front as well. I blacked out.”

 

The woman wraps her arms around her legs, placing her chin on her knees. “I saw the whole thing,” she murmurs, voice almost calming given the chilling subject. “Back of the plan broke off midway, I could feel the wind rushing past my ears. Could hardly hear a thing. Then the front end broke off, and we fell into the beach in a fiery crash.”

 

Steve shakes his head. “It’s amazing so many of us survived the crash.”

 

“Maybe it’s a good thing. More people, more minds to put together to try and get us out of here,” the woman says with a hint of optimism.

 

“Or more mouths to feed and questions to answer when the hours start to drag out,” Steve replies sullenly, throwing a leaf into the fire in front of them, the supposed signal fire a couple guys built while Steve went around checking everyone’s injuries.

 

The woman looks surprised. “You don't think we’ll get rescued? Get off this patch of grass and back into the real world?”

 

Steve’s face scrunches up. “Honestly?” he prompts, seeing the woman nod hastily. “I’ve had this bad feeling. Maybe it’s just me, I don't know. I’m pretty sure no one’s coming to get us.”

 

“Well, that’s a promising attitude,” a new voice says from behind them. Steve and the woman whip around and see a man with long hair sauntering over, soggy cigarette between his teeth and sleeves rolled up. “We definitely won’t get rescued if Doctor Do-Good doesn't think we will.”

 

Steve turns back around and rolls his eyes. He's dealt with a lot of irritating people today—and most of his life if he's being honest—and he really doesn't feel like dealing with one more. 

 

“What? Nothing?” the man asks, sitting on the other side of the woman. “You guys don't even wanna hear about what I saw during the crash? About the cockpit?”

 

The woman sits up a little straighter. “You know where the cockpit is?” she turns to face Steve, face alight with new hope. “If we find the cockpit, we can find the transmission and send a message. It'll help us get rescued.”

 

Steve looks at the man. “Where’s the cockpit?”

 

The man looks pleased to have Steve’s attention. “I saw smoke through the valley,” he points behind himself with a sure finger. “Through there. Go there tomorrow morning and I’m sure you'll find the cockpit.”

 

Before either Steve or the woman can say anything else, the man saunters off, dragging sand everywhere behind him with every step he takes.

 

“So,” the woman says, leaning over to nudge Steve, “are we gonna go find the cockpit tomorrow?”

 

Steve sighs, considering. “Maybe it’s best if everyone stay here. I’ll go at first light and find—“

 

“If you're going for the cockpit, I’m going with you,” the woman says firmly, eyes trained on Steve and unrelenting, gaze fierce and piercing through Steve like a dagger.

 

He chuckles slightly, turning back towards the fire. “I don't even know your name.”

 

It’s quiet for a moment, then, “Natasha.”

 

Steve looks over the woman—Natasha—and smiles softly. “I’m Steve.”

 

For once, Natasha smiles back, a genuine one that sends warmth through Steve’s whole being, a strange feeling that brings him back to reality as he shales his head and clears his thoughts. 

 

 

 

Peter chews on a piece of disgusting beef tenderloin in a tinfoil wrapping when the trees start rumbling and falling down in the distance. Dropping the beef, he stands, much like the rest of the survivors, and walks towards the end elf the beach, where the sand starts to meet the grass.

 

Around him, people gather, including the impressive blonde doctor from earlier, a pretty redhead by his side. 

 

“Did anyone else see that?” another woman asks, horror and confusion in her eyes. “Daddy, what was that?” a little girl says, clutching a man’s hand tightly. “Was that Anthony?”

 

All around Peter, confusion breaks out, made more clear when the rumbling continues, more trees falling in quick succession.

 

Beside him, a man with long, black, slicked back hair, scoffs. “Terrific,” he mutters darkly, and Peter is inclined to agree.

 

 

 

The next morning, a frightened group of people try to make the best out of their situation, finding a few bottles of water and rationing them out for everyone to have a few sips with their breakfast of some fruits a man picked the night before in his inability to fall asleep.

 

Clint stands in a group with a couple others, the pregnant girl—Wanda, she told him last night by the fire—and her…brother? Boyfriend? He doesn't speak any English, and Wanda hasn't spoken any since she murmured her name after Clint asked, before that when she was yelling about her pain to the doctor—Steve, Clint remembers—during the crash.

 

Almost on instinct, Clint starts rubbing his ears, used to the comfort it usually gives him. He wonders when a good time to tell some people about his recent discovery is, but Clint’s sure that everyone else is busy with trying to figure out what the hell happened to them yesterday.

 

“Hey,” Steve says, walking over to the remnants of the fire, a redheaded woman following close behind, “me and Natasha are going out to find the cockpit.” Steve looks over to the kid sitting beside Wanda’s…whatever. “Can you keep an eye on the guy I revived yesterday? He might still be in shock and I wanna make sure he doesn't drop again.”

 

The kid nods, clearly happy to have something to do. “Sure! Yeah, I got it.” Clint wonders where the kid’s parents are.

 

In a split decision, Clint speaks up. “I’ll go with you guys.”

 

The redhead—Natasha—has a look of annoyance cross her features. “We don't really need anyone else coming with—“

 

“Nah, it’s okay,” Clint interrupts. “I don't really feel like sitting still anyway.”

 

Steve seems to consider for a few moments. “Alright,” he responds. “We’ll leave in a few. I’ll come get you.”

 

“Cool,” Clint says, sitting back down. Wanda gives him a strange look, then the man with her grabs her wrist and pulls her away from them, leaving Clint aline with the kid. 

 

The kid plays with a handful of sand for awhile, sifting it between his fingers and looking like he's in another world. “I’m Peter by the way.”

 

Clint gets up before he can strike up a conversation.

 

 

 

Ten minutes later, Natasha finds Clint and meets up with Steve at the outer edge of the jungle, ready to head inside and look for the cockpit. The first stretch of the trek is relatively painless, with Steve leading and Natasha and Clint striking up casual conversation behind him.

 

“Can I ask you a question?” Natasha prompts.

 

Clint smirks. “Of course.”

 

Natasha hesitates. “Have we…have we met before?”

 

“We have not,” Clint confirms, still smirking, “I would've remembered.”

 

Concealing her frown, Natasha’s expression is one of thought. “Huh.”

 

“But I have one of those faces, right?” Clint asks, pushing Natasha to think further. “I look so familiar, but you can’t place me?”

 

Natasha nods. “Yes, actually.”

 

“I think I know,” Clint says, tone teasing and smiling slightly, not showing his teeth.

 

Turning a pointed look on Clint, Natasha probes. “What is it?” she asks, every fiber of her being forcing the curiosity out of her voice, keeping it level and stable, giving off a feeling of being unbothered.

 

“Have you ever seen the commercials for the traveling circus?” Clint asks, feeling smug. “Where they have the guy jumping through the rings of fire and shooting arrows at all the targets?”

 

Furrowing her eyebrows, Natasha slows her walking pace. “…Yes?”

 

Clint crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m the guy.”

 

“From Bishop’s Traveling Circus? Really?” Natasha clarifies, incredulous.

 

“Yes! That’s me! I jumped through all kinds of shit, but they always wanted me to shoot arrows.”

 

“No way, my friend Maria loves the circus, she’s been begging me for tickets for years now,” Natasha lies, still reveling in the fact that she actually knows someone on the plane. Somewhat, at least.

 

Clint laughs. “Well, I mean I’m not in it anymore, but I still have the connections. I can call, I’d love to get you guys tickets.”

 

“Oh my God—“

 

Steve walks between the two of them, eyebrows furrowed and hands on hips, stance completely serious. “Guys. We really need to keep going.”

 

Natasha turns to Steve, still smiling. “Ever heard of Bishop’s Traveling Circus? They go all around the world and do the craziest shit I’ve ever seen.” Another lie, but what Steve and Clint don't know won’t hurt them. On an island that no one seems to have an idea of where it is, there’s a chance she’ll never have to explain herself to these people. She’ll keep it that way for as long as possible.

 

Besides, she still hasn't located her flying companion on the plane. For all she knows, he's dead, and no one will ever find out what they were doing traveling together.

 

“It’s gonna get dark soon. We need to find a place to make camp,” Steve says instead of answering, continuing his walk at a faster pace than before.

 

Natasha and Clint follow close behind. “Touchy,” Clint remarks, and Natasha hides a snort at the comment.

 

 

 

Finding the cockpit is easy. The cockpit is exactly where the man from the fire the night before said he saw smoke from earlier yesterday. It sits perched on a large tree, almost vertical, but a large, cave-like entrance has been created from where the cockpit broke off from the main section of the plane during the crash.

 

“I’m going in. We need to find a transceiver so we can try and send a signal for rescue,” Steve explains matter-of-factly. He starts walking towards the gaping hole in the plane.

 

Clint starts following. “Well, I’m coming too.”

 

Natasha watches the men start climbing into the cockpit, eyebrow quirked. “Oh, what the hell,” she murmurs, walking over to the cockpit to climb in herself.

 

It’s gruesome. They have to use the seats to pull themselves up through the cockpit, and Natasha’s hand accidentally brushes against a dead man’s hand, resting casually against the arm of the seat, his skin cold and hard. She hears Clint gagging in front of her, and when she reaches that section, she can tell why. The stench of already decaying bodies filled her nose, a ripe sort of deadly scent that stung and made her eyes water, choking back coughs and gags.

 

Steve and Natasha finally make it into the cockpit, where the co-pilot is sitting slumped against the dashboard, head wound open and gaping, blood still flowing from it. “He’s dead,” Steve announces, reaching over to close his eyes.

 

Beside them, a wet gasp startles Natasha, and she looks over to see the pilot, breathing deeply through his mouth, a small trickle of blood flowing from his mouth as he does so. He blinks slowly, looking around, jumping in his seat when he sees Steve and Natasha sitting there staring at him.

 

“W-what happened?” the pilot wheezes out, swallowing. Natasha can hear the blood in his mouth moving down his throat, and she closes her eyes to gather herself. “Where am I?”  


Steve takes charge, and Natasha lets him this time, not wanting to spend too much time making eye contact with an inevitably dead man. “We’re on an island. We don't know exactly where we are. The plane crashed. We—“

 

“We lost controls about four hours in,” the pilot interrupts, swallowing again, sounding like a heavy mouthful. “I tried to get them back up, but it was useless. So I turned us around…tried to land in Fiji.”

 

“So that’s where we are?” Natasha asks. “Fiji?” They can find rescue easily if they’re in Fiji. Planes land there all the time when they experience problems.

 

To her dismay, the pilot shakes his head. “No…we never made it,” he coughs, a spray of blood landing on the windshield in front of him. “By the time…we…landed,” he wheezes out, his voice sounding more and more far away as he continues to speak, “we were…a thousand miles…off course.”

 

Natasha leans back, unable to hold back a whimper. Steve closes his eyes and rubs his temples, clearly stressed.

 

The pilot finishes up, like a final nail in a coffin. “They have…no idea…where we are.”

 

The windshield is broken suddenly, glass scattering everywhere. Natasha screams as the pilot is ripped from his chair, dragged through the broken windshield. A rattling sound right next to Natasha’s ears grows distant as it moves away, and then it’s silent.

 

Steve and Natasha wait, eye wide and locked on each other. Steve’s breathing heavily, chest rising and falling more rapid than what seems healthy. Natasha, on the other hand, waits with baited breath.

 

Then a body slams against the part of the windshield still intact, head hanging in the hole that was created earlier. Natasha screams again when she sees that it’s the pilot, face bloody and beaten, like he’d been in a fight and lost severely.

 

The pilot gives one last wet, wheezing breath, before his entire body stills, eyes wide with terror and despair.

 

“W-what the hell was that?!” Natasha asks, in shock.

 

Steve looks around, now seemingly focused on something else.

 

“Steve!” Natasha yells, forcing Steve to while around. “What was that?”

 

“The transceiver,” Steve mumbles, “we need to find the transceiver.”

 

Natasha feels stupid, remembering the initial reason they bothered to find the cockpit in the first place, the reality of what just happened still hanging in Natasha’s mind, unexplained, undefinable. Natasha looks around the cockpit, not seeing anything resembling a transceiver, but noticing something missing. “Where’s Clint?” she asks, voice hollow and small, the most emotions she's shown in a long time.

 

Steve sighs and his face crumples, looking down at the box he was rummaging through, desperate and at a loss. “He can’t have gone far. Weren't you right behind him?” He looks over long enough to see Natasha nod dumbly. “Look for him near the cockpit, _do not leave_ , I’ll keep looking for the transceiver.”

 

“Okay,” Natasha sniffs, climbing down from the cockpit and heading towards the cabin. To her right, the bathroom door swings up, banging against the wall and startling a third scream from Natasha.

 

Clint appears out of the bathroom, looking sheepish and nervous. “What was that out there? Did you guys find the transceiver?”

 

Anger overtakes Natasha as she looks at Clint, unbothered by whatever the hell just happened to the pilot. “Why the hell were you in the bathroom?!” she screams, continuing her descent out of the cabin. 

 

“I was hiding!” Clint defends, a pout forming over his features. “You heard that shit, I didn't wanna be anywhere near that!”

 

Natasha groans, feet finally planted on actual ground, Clint not too far behind her. There, they wait for Steve to come back down, either with the transceiver or empty-handed.

 

A few minutes later, Steve appears, a large block-shaped device in his hand. He looks the closest he can to triumphant, the pilot’s death still leaving him and Natasha feeling shaken. “The transceiver,” Steve explains, holding out the device for Natasha and Clint to see.

 

Clint nods. “Awesome.” Clicking his tongue, he looks around. “Hey, it’s getting kinda dark. Can we…head back now?”

 

Natasha rolls her eyes as Steve nods. “Yes, the jungle is the last place I wanna spend the night. Who knows what else will happen out here.”

 

Twenty minutes later, they find out just what Steve was referring to earlier. The sun is out, shining brightly, one minute, and the next, the sky closes in and rain pours everywhere, thunder and lightning rolling across the sky, now dark in hue. “Is this normal?!” Clint asks, but his words are barely heard over the sound of rain smashing against the ground and world around them. “The whole day turning into night, end of the world type crap?!”

 

“We need to find cover,” Steve says, leaning close to Natasha, and she shivers when she feels his warm breath fanning over, adding to her chills due to the cold, wet atmosphere.

 

Natasha nods. “There should be some hanging trees nearby. We can take cover in those. Ride out this weather.”

 

“Good idea,” Steve replies, already turning to where Natasha pointed. “Hey Clint! We’re gonna head over—“

 

He’s interrupted, and Natasha’s heart drops into her stomach when she hears the familiar rattling sound from earlier, the entity that stole the pilot from them and killed him, dropping him on the cockpit and leaving like nothing had happened at all. Natasha and Steve exchange glances, both running pale, and not just from their freezing states.

 

“Run!” Steve yells, and they take off, heading in the direction of the hanging trees. 

 

Natasha can barely see a thing, rain and fog clouding her vision, leaving her running with essentially no direction. In the distance, she can see the hanging trees, and she makes a break for them, sliding around in mud on her way, nearly slipping two times. 

 

When she reaches the trees, she runs directly inside the brush, hiding within the wiry branches that weave throughout the bark. Looking around in front of her, she doesn't see Steve or Clint.

 

They’re nowhere to be found. She's by herself.

 

Suddenly the rattling turns into a slow, soft moaning noise, like the crank of machinery that’s coming back to life after a long period of no use. The sound sets Natasha’s spine ramrod straight, her heart beating faster than she's ever felt before. Everything she's ever been through, her entire life of fear and feeling lost and misplaces, all of it pales in comparison to the sheer terror coursing through her veins in this moment.

 

The rattling and moaning continues, like a large, ominous snake, weaving through the jungle, and Natasha can’t make out anything that would resemble a creature that could make a noise like that.

 

Suddenly, the rain stops, the fog clears, and she can’t hear any rattling. Whatever it was, whatever was after them, it’s gone.

 

“Nat!” she hears a man screaming in the distance, Steve, she thinks, “Nat! Where are you?! Nat!”

 

She breathes out a heavy sigh of relief, slumping against the tree. “Steve!” she calls back. “I’m over here! By the trees!”

 

“Nat!” Steve shouts again, his voice getting closer. “I’m with Clint! We’re coming!”

 

This time, Natasha can’t hold back the laugh that falls from her lips, the absolute relief and joy that washes over her, that everyone, including her, is safe from whatever lies beyond in the jungle. “Okay!” she calls back and emerges from the trees, just in time for Steve and Clint to walk into the clearing, both soaked to the bone, Steve’s short hair flattened against his forehead, Clint dripping water from his ears before he reaches up to rub at them.

 

Natasha knows she must look like a mess as well, she feels her hair and clothes sticking to her body, already warming up from the rapidly increasing humidity from the usual climate of the island.

 

“Well,” Clint starts, tone sardonic as usual, “that just happened.”

 

Steve nods. “Yeah,” he says, breathing heavily still. “We should start heading back now. It actually is gonna get dark soon, rain or shine.”

 

The three start their trek back, drying off just in time to make it to the beach, where the sunset casts a beautiful peachy glow on the sand. Natasha would have something to say about the view she has if there weren't such extenuating circumstances.

 

“Hey!” a young voice calls out—Peter, Natasha remembered—as he headed toward the group, a reluctant smile on his face. “You guys are back! Did you get the transceiver thingy?”  
  
A small group has started to gather around the three, all looking ready to ask questions. Natasha has a feeling they heard the noise again, saw trees look as though they had been mowed down all at once, in huge clusters, and that they probably want to know if the three had seen whatever it is that does that.

 

“Yeah,” Steve replies, retrieving the device from where he had tucked it in his pants at his back, where a person would put a gun. “We got it,” he holds up the transceiver for the group to see, and Natasha almost smirks at the immediate murmurs of awe from the group surrounding them. “It doesn't work, I checked in the jungle. It won’t even turn on.” Natasha is pleased that Steve decided not to sugarcoat their reality to the group. They’re all in this situation together, lying will only make things worse for everybody.

 

Lying, that is, in conjunction with their immediate survival. Personal matters aren't included.

 

Peter’s grinning, but there’s something else in his eyes. “So…now what do we do with it? How do we get it to send a signal?”

 

Natasha watches as Steve’s hopeful expression drops a little, hardly noticeable to anyone else that hadn't just spent the day marching through the jungle with him. But Natasha had, and so Natasha recognizes that Steve doesn't know what to say now, doesn't know what to do.

 

“I get it online again, I figure out a way to send a signal, then we get the hell off this shithole of an island.”

 

Everyone turns to face the voice, someone standing behind them, and Natasha realizes that she doesn't recognize this person. From the crash anyway. Anyone who follows current events would know that the man standing in front of them is Tony Stark, Natasha just has no idea how he's managed to evade everyones attention since the crash happened.

 

“Oh yeah, by the way,” Tony says, eyes a little stony, lips curled into a half-sneer that makes even Natasha feel uncomfortable, “thanks for leaving me in the fuselage with all the rotting corpses. That was a great way to start my evening.”

**Author's Note:**

> a few things to clarify before we move on:  
> -steve is very much going to be a jack character. i'm not entirely sure how tony will fit into it, if it'll be a jack vs. locke dynamic like the show, but i'm sure all will fall into place  
> -nat it very much the kate, bucky the sawyer  
> -scott and cassie resemble michael and walt, though i don't plan for them to suffer the same fates as michael and walt did  
> -wanda and pietro are similar to sun and jin: the sibling version, in that they both don't speak english, except actually wanda does and is hiding it from pietro. however, wanda is also a version of claire given her pregnancy, so their dynamic will be very different, almost taking on a shannon and boone relationship as well. they'll be very confusing and won't be tied down to just one character  
> -on the other hand, thor and loki are very much the shannon and boone of the story so we'll see how that goes.
> 
> this chapter focused heavily on steve and natasha, with some clint. this is meant to mimic the pilot of the show, wherein it heavily focused on jack, kate and charlie locating the cockpit and getting info from the pilot + the transceiver  
> as the story goes on, each character will have a chance to be properly explored, and at one point, every character (or groups of characters, in scott and cassie, thor and loki, and wanda and pietro's cases) will have their backstories explored. we're just getting started.
> 
> this will be a LONG fic, if you can't tell from the length of this chapter alone. i'm not entirely sure how updates are gonna go, if they're going to be weekly or have more time in between them. i'm thinking the latter to give me the time to write out a outline and then follow through with it.
> 
> one more thing: i'm still not entirely sure, even as im writing this endnote, if i want this story to follow the arc of just the first season, focusing more on the group's survival and less on the island's mysteries, or if i want to write an even lengthier fic, maybe even a series, where the story follows more seasons of the show and gets into the mystery of the island. idk if this will be a search and rescue fic, or if this will be a full-on lost fic, where i go the whole nine yards with the mystery, having my very own "jacob" amongst other things. if anyone's even reading this, pls leave a comment and let me know which you would prefer:  
> 1\. a story similar to season 1, with a potential rescue at the end OR  
> 2\. a story similar to the show as a whole, with similar plots from the show all the way up to the 6th and final season, with similar themes and all. this version will most likely have to be a series, unless it was just one very VERY long fic. in this case, it would probably be easier for me to do a series than anything else.
> 
> let me know ur thoughts on that and anything else!! i'd love to hear what u guys think!


End file.
